


Infected

by ImpOfPerversity



Series: Devastation-verse [13]
Category: Baroque Cycle - Neal Stephenson, Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-08-31
Updated: 2004-08-31
Packaged: 2018-10-21 07:01:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10680141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpOfPerversity/pseuds/ImpOfPerversity





	Infected

Jack Shaftoe watched Sparrow lose himself, eyes open and hungry gaze fixed on Jack, spilling over his hand with Jack's dexterous, lawless fingers stretching his tight arse -- it seemed that it _did_ feel as good to give as to receive, a milksop sentiment that Jack had previously dismissed as the ravings of several lunaticks -- and wondered at the sight, for Jack Sparrow had not previously seemed the type to lay himself out before anyone (Jack, scarred by youthful encounters with predatory whores, still regarded sex as a particular kind of vulnerability) but here he was, gasping and gushing, kissing Jack warmly and affectionately, quivering with the sudden release; and Jack Shaftoe the man responsible for it, which gave him a warm glow quite distinct from the buzz of arousal which suffused his entire body, and most especially the parts of it that were touching Jack Sparrow; in fact, his whole skin was tingling with arousal, as though he'd been neatly and painlessly flayed and his skin spread out for Jack Sparrow to wrap round himself and trace his piratey sigils upon; though that would mean that the extreme sensitivity of those parts of Jack's anatomy in contact with the pirate -- fingers (can't get much closer than _that_ , Jack), mouth, legs, arms, chest -- was due to their tender, naked skinlessness; Jack Sparrow's long fingers, braceletting his wrist like sun-warmed metal, stroked the inside of his wrist, and Shaftoe shivered all over like a new colt; and in the small space that had opened up between their mouths, barely enough to admit air for them to breathe, Sparrow said, "Jack ... ", and Jack simply breathed in the name, his name, _their_ name, and it might as well have been a magical incantation that stole his powers (his much-exercised powers) of speech; his lips parted, but no sound emerged, unless that faint moan had been his; and Sparrow smiled suddenly at him (had the guttering lantern really flared bright at just that moment, or was Jack Sparrow's gold-sparking smile luminous in itself?) and whispered, "Thanks for that, Jack; you've a knack for it, and you may do that to me as often as you please, though I warn you that you've stolen away the means of my repayment, at least for a few moments," and the sound of human speech restored Jack's own tongue to him, so that -- first swiping it across Jack Sparrow's lips, to taste his words and savour the little gasp and the blissful smile that his tasting produced -- he said, "A man must make do with what he has; but oh, Jack ... " and he couldn't speak the rest, but Sparrow must have felt the words vibrating in Jack's heavy pulse, or seen them like an augury in his flushed skin, for he smiled and kissed Jack Shaftoe again, slow and hot and passionate, the way Jack had kissed his best girl (the fickle, though charming, Mary Dolores) before the disastrous excursion to Dunkirk, and the damage there incurr'd; and yet it was a different kiss, for the two of them came to it -- despite the shortcomings and incapacities that Jack had suffered since Dunkirk, despite the fact that he'd just let tradition and convention drop by the way and, using everything at his disposal (or, perhaps, not; for even now new ideas were springing feverishly in his mind, as though Sparrow's seed spilling upon his hand had signified some pagan fertility rite and engendered, not creatures, but _notions_ , deliciously perverse notions, and images, and desires that he had never entertained before) he had given it to Jack Sparrow the only way he could, lamenting -- of course -- his lack of the proper equipment with which to bestow upon Sparrow the hard, deep fucking he so obviously deserved, but nevertheless not unhappy with the results; and not unhappy, either, with the way that Sparrow's sticky cock was reviving already against his belly, and Sparrow's hot, eager, agile tongue was flexing around his own in a kind of lewd semaphore, the gist of which seemed to Jack to be, "any minute now, I'm going to fuck you, like I did before but paying much more attention to detail this time; if, of course, that plan meets with your approval, Jack?" and since Jack Shaftoe could think of very little, at this moment -- the two of them the world's still centre, the _Black Pearl_ , the North Sea, the European continent and the entire world swinging and swaying around them as Jack Sparrow's hand reached out to the little shelf above the cot, and retrieved a little wooden casket which, opened, reeked of the Orient -- that he'd like better than to be roundly fucked, for a long time, by the flexible and inventive Captain Jack Sparrow, and he intimated as much to the pirate without speaking; without speaking in words, at least, though every part of his body was beseeching Sparrow, in the most ardent and eloquent language (or perhaps languages) to give him whatever he cared to bestow; and that turned out to be Sparrow's own busy fingers working him open like a man tapping a tun of someone else's wine, Sparrow's tongue flickering over his chest -- Jack wondered if he had ever before properly appreciated his own nipples -- and Sparrow's free hand, sticky with his own semen, running along Jack's lower lip like an invitation to sample something entirely new; an invitation that Jack found himself unable to resist, although half a day ago he'd have recoiled at the very idea; but, infected as he was by Sparrow's unique species of madness, tasting his very _essence_ seemed strangely desirable, and though the ammoniac tang was not entirely to Jack's liking, the idea of one day lapping this dense manna direct from its source engaged his phant'sy so entirely that he began to twist around, meaning to finish cleansing Jack Sparrow of one sin before he commenced upon the next: but Sparrow was pressing him down, his knee pushing between Jack's own, muttering Jack's name together with some oaths, imprecations and blasphemies, by which Jack understood that he was about to receive what he found himself begging for in a most unseemly fashion; and Sparrow's fingers were gone, and the brief cold contracting emptiness was replaced, slowly and emphatically, by a solid living heat, he'd have sworn (were he still capable of stringing together any two syllables) that he could feel Sparrow's heartbeat, reverberating through him and falling into pace with his own, and whereas before, in Southwark in that dull, earth-bound, motionless attic, he'd thought of _that_ feeling as a mine exploding, or a store of wet powder catching fire, he saw it now before his open eyes as a flare of ruby-red light, all shot through with gold and black and grinning gleefully at him; a light not equivalent to, but contiguous with, Jack Sparrow rocking into him, his mouth affixed to Jack's own like a lamprey, his hand pressing down on Jack's belly, moving as though he were sharpening, harvesting, claiming Jack Shaftoe's pleasure; and Jack gave it willingly, and claimed Sparrow's widened eyes and wild convulsion, his yowl of exultation, as his own.


End file.
